


TCB (When I Say Business I Mean Business)

by tibididim



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hand Jobs, Kink Meme, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-28
Updated: 2010-10-28
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:34:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tibididim/pseuds/tibididim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: <i>Sherlock does get horny sometimes, but he doesn't do anything about it. Which annoys John."Could you please stop walking around the flat with a tent pitched in your trousers all day? Can't you just.... you know, take care of it?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	TCB (When I Say Business I Mean Business)

It’s cold cold cold; John can’t get the key in the door fast enough, his fingers stiff, fumbling even taking the key back out again to shut the door.

He gets to the door of the flat just as Mrs Hudson is leaving, tea towel and tray in hand. She leans toward him, eyes wide; John senses her protective instincts have been kindled.

“Look, dearie; I know you have your work to do, same as him, but you shouldn’t let him get _into_ such a state, he just doesn’t think about it and it’s not good for his work - there was a lovely couple of drownings on the news and he didn’t even notice, poor darling -”

“Mrs Hudson!” he interrupts, and says, mostly because she’s expecting it, “it’s OK. I’ll take care of it.”

Forcing himself not to fear the worst, he pushes the door open, resisting the urge to close his eyes in case Sherlock’s done something really dreadful.

But Sherlock is sitting in exactly the same place at the kitchen table as he was that morning, staring at exactly the same petri dish, under the same microscope; the same sheaf of (probably stolen) police files spilling over the counter - wait, no, some appear to have migrated to the floor.

John would be very much not surprised if Sherlock was, in fact, watching bacteria divide.

“Mrs Hudson said you were in a bit of a state?” he ventures.

Sherlock doesn’t initially respond. John drops his bag and sits down on the sofa, picking up a newspaper.

“Had a good day at the surgery,” John continues implacably. “Girl got her finger shut in an oven door, fractured it, I got to drain some fluid.” He glances over the top of the paper.

Sherlock launches himself across the room and scoops up a file from the floor. He stares at it. His mouth moves; he’s saying something, but god knows if it would make any sense to anyone, except perhaps Mycroft.

John’s eyes flick over Sherlock, head to toe. What had Mrs Hudson meant? This behavior of Sherlock’s wasn’t exactly abnormal. Oh, there he went. The pacing. It looked quite deliberate - like he was trying to measure something out.The size of the room?

“John. I told you earlier. Thinking too loudly. And you’re wrong; it’s to do with time.”

I wasn’t here earlier, thinks John. But never mind. “And the bacteria?”

“They have to take the same time to reach a certain population as the embezzler took to transfer the funds; he had to use a particular computer, one a little out of the way; the contaminated keyboard’s in the cupboard with the pasta."

Sherlock takes another step forward and turns neatly ninety degrees. John long ago decided to stop pretending he wasn’t looking, that he wasn’t fascinated by Sherlock’s motions and gestures and face. Sherlock turns another ninety degrees, hands spread apart, frowning - and then John gets it.

And John feels like an idiot, and a little embarrassed at telling Mrs Hudson he’d ‘take care of it’, because what Mrs Hudson had clearly been just about polite enough not to mention explicitly was that Sherlock has been stalking round the flat all day almost totally hard under his trousers.

It’s quite.

Well.

Not exactly hard to miss.

 _Oh dear_ , thinks John.

He averts his eyes and tries to think about the coalition government and proportional representation and fails.

“Sherlock,” he says. “I don’t want to intrude, but you - you’re -”

“Yes,” says Sherlock absently. He’s still gazing at some invisible spot on the floor. “All day. Not enough time, sorry.”

Processing this takes a little too much time. “Not enough time - for you to masturbate, then. Too busy on the case.” But still somehow very, very aroused all day.

“Yes. No. Well. Not enough time for the man Lestrade wants put away to have transferred what he should have. Still hiding something, though, probably some idiotic sexual encounter - might be connected, but probably isn’t worth going to prison for. The silly things people get embarrassed about!” - Sherlock is back at the microscope, and John is acutely aware of his own hardness now. He can’t imagine spending so long aching for release. Well, he _can_ \- he can imagine the roughness and constriction of staying clothed, the constant desire to just touch himself - but it only makes it worse.

John’s getting up from the sofa, hoping to leave for his own room without any further conversation, before he quite realises he’s fully intending to go upstairs to try to get off to the thought of Sherlock Holmes’ cock. But Sherlock’s started pacing again, and the view is incredible. John can see some motion beneath the fabric and only slightly hates himself for looking.

“It’s not really your place to be embarrassed, John,” says Sherlock, a little pissily, and it feels almost as if he’s talking to him from another room, “and I certainly aren’t, it’s a body part like any other. Though,” and his voice seems strange, in a way John wouldn’t have caught on to even a fortnight before - “John -I would ask that in future you not wear the stripey jumper in the morning when I’m on a case. And can you dry yourself properly after you shower in the morning. I don’t have time to deal with - with that. It makes everything take longer, it ruins my efficiency.”

“Of course,” John says. “Anything.”

He goes and stands right in front of Sherlock, blocking his path across the floor, and rests one hand, very gently, on Sherlock’s hip, as Sherlock avoids John’s eyes.

John steps closer, right up next to him, unbuttons two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, and presses his mouth to the exposed skin.

Sherlock inhales and exhales sharply, and his hand comes up to his hip to cover John’s, holding on tightly; John leans up to kiss him properly, the idiot, idiot man; undoes Sherlock’s flies with one hand, getting the other into Sherlock’s hair - and there it is, at last, hard and wonderful in his hand, wet and leaking.

John doesn’t know, yet, what rhythm Sherlock likes, but right now he’s not sure that matters - one experimental slide of his hand and Sherlock is gasping into John’s shoulder, saying idiotic things like, “This is why I married my work, John!” and “It would be unreasonable for me to ask you to do this every time -”

John strokes the back of Sherlock’s neck, absurdly content. Sherlock’s eyes are a little wild. John’s own erection is pressed against Sherlock’s thigh. His plans are getting more elaborate with every passing second. Sherlock’s shaking a little; John thinks Sherlock is about to come, and is looking forward to it, though John slightly wishes he’d used his mouth. Oh well. Next time. On impulse he kisses Sherlock’s cheek and Sherlock actually flushes a little pink.

“Don’t worry,” says John, as blandly as he can manage, as Sherlock spurts over his hand while managing simultaneously to say something insulting about sentimentality and needless degrees of attachment, “when we finish this, there are plenty of other things we can do,” and he has to smile, as Sherlock pulls John's jumper over his head while telling him that the bacteria could, after all the excitement they'd had, maybe do with a rest. Just for a bit.

**Author's Note:**

> The first _Sherlock_ fic I ever wrote! How presh.


End file.
